Devil Slave (Satan system)

Chapter 1175: Nate Is Angry

The Elven Queen’s eyes darkened as she spoke, her voice low and filled with an ancient sorrow. "The blood of fallen angels is a curse, Enel. It carries the weight of their fall from grace, a stain that cannot be erased. And when mixed with demon blood, it becomes even more terrible." She paused, her gaze distant as if reliving painful memories. "I’ve seen it myself in Luca’s children. Nate, your half-brother, tortured a cub mutant beast when he was only five years old. The glee in his eyes as he did it... It was unnatural, a glimpse of the darkness festering inside him."

Her voice grew heavier as she continued, "I have watched my great-grandchildren closely, born of Luca’s bloodline. They are powerful, but... dangerous. You, Enel, are... different. You can’t hide from these old eyes. There is something unique about you." She turned to him, her eyes filled with a strange hope. "I believe you were sent by our ancestors, a gift to us. I can see it in your eyes—there is more intelligence, more control in you than in the rest of your siblings... and also more power..."

The Queen stepped closer to Lady Vinegar, her movements slow and deliberate. She produced a small golden vial, shimmering with an ethereal glow, and gently poured its contents into Lady Vinegar’s mouth. Lenny watched in silence as the golden liquid flowed from the vial and disappeared into the floating figure.

"This vial," the Queen explained, "is the true essence of the Eternal Pool. Only the ruler of the High Elves is entitled to it. It’s what sustains us, grants us our long lives and strength. But... I stopped taking it years ago."

Lenny’s eyes widened in realization. The Queen’s graying hair, her aging appearance—it all made sense now. She had been sacrificing her own vitality, giving the vial’s precious contents to Lady Vinegar in a desperate attempt to keep her alive.

The Queen turned to him, her expression solemn. "I did it to save her, Enel. Vinegar has always been special to me, and I couldn’t bear to let her go. But now, I have little time left." Her voice trembled slightly, though her resolve remained strong. "I won’t live much longer. And when I’m gone, I need you to rule in my place. You must protect the Elven nation."

Her words hung heavy in the air. Enel could feel the weight of the responsibility she was placing upon him.

His mind swirled with the complexities of his lineage, his past lives, and now, the future of the elves. The Queen’s eyes never left his, her trust and hope resting entirely on him.

But Lenny had other issues he considered to be more important.

It was true that the queen had sacrificed everything—her strength, her life—for the survival of her people. Now, she was asking Enel to take up that burden, to lead and protect a nation that was already struggling to hold together under the weight of its own internal darkness.

Lenny’s face grew serious, his voice quiet but filled with urgency. This was not urgency for her, but urgency for his lover, Lady Vinegar. "How long do you have?"

The Elven Queen, her expression weary, sighed deeply before responding. "Only three years, Enel. After the Star Crowning Ceremony... my time will end."

Her words were a heavy blow. Three years was not long. Enel’s mind raced, trying to process the enormity of what she was asking of him, but there was no time to dwell on it further. Unknown to them, their conversation was being overheard.

Just outside the grand chamber, a maid had been quietly listening, her pointed ears catching every word spoken within. Her heart raced with the implications of what she had just heard. Enel—the youngest, half-demon and half-angel, and with no elven blood—was to be the next ruler? It was a shocking revelation. She knew there was only one person who needed to hear this.

Quickly, she fled down the narrow, torch-lit corridors of the elven palace until she found Nate, Luca’s firstborn son. Nate stood tall and brooding in his private chamber, his fiery eyes already carrying a hint of malice. The maid approached him, her breath quick and nervous as she whispered the Queen’s secret words into his ear.

At once, a furious storm clouded Nate’s expression. His jaw clenched, and his fists tightened at his sides. "What? My youngest half-brother, Enel?" he spat, his voice low and venomous. "That half-breed trash has no right to our throne."

The anger that surged through Nate was palpable. He could have tolerated it if his father, Luca, had been chosen to inherit the throne—at least he was acknowledged as part of the royal elven bloodline. But Enel? Enel was even from a concubine that had fled this land.

The idea that someone without a drop of elven blood would sit on the throne was a disgrace, an insult.

Without warning, Nate’s rage boiled over. His hand lashed out, slapping the maid hard across the face. She gasped in pain, staggering backward, but before she could react, Nate grabbed her and threw her to the ground. His eyes burned with frustration and fury, his chest heaving as he stood over her.

"I won’t let this happen," he growled through clenched teeth, his gaze dark and dangerous. His hand reached out, grabbing her roughly as he mounted her, using her body to vent the burning rage inside him. The maid, though fearful, said nothing as Nate moved against her, his anger finding a cruel and sensual release.

His thoughts were elsewhere, consumed by the betrayal he felt. Nate would not allow his youngest half-brother to take the throne. Not Lenny. The wheels in his mind began to turn, and a cold determination settled over him.

As the maid lay beneath him, Nate’s mind was already plotting. He would find a way to stop this, no matter the cost...

——-

Perseus was carried swiftly through the underworld by the werewolves, their movements blurring as they passed through dark caverns and shadowed valleys. The air was thick with the scent of brimstone, and the ground beneath them trembled with each step. They approached a portal, shimmering like molten glass, suspended in the heart of the blackened landscape. With no hesitation, they plunged through it, and in an instant, the world around them changed.

They emerged inside a colossal chamber, deep within the belly of a volcano. The walls were alive, rippling with waves of fire that danced in hues of crimson and orange. The air was unbearably hot, each breath feeling like swallowing embers. Columns of black stone jutted from the ground, veined with rivers of glowing lava. The ceiling stretched high, disappearing into a fiery haze, and the roar of the molten core echoed in the distance like the growl of a slumbering beast.

In the center of the chamber was a bed, carved from obsidian and bathed in a warm, orange glow from the surrounding flames. The bed seemed almost too delicate for such a place, yet it exuded a strange sense of calm amidst the inferno. The werewolves laid Perseus down gently. His body was broken, blood seeping from his wounds and staining the dark sheets beneath him. His breath was shallow, his eyes half-closed, barely conscious.

Suddenly, a figure stepped into the fiery glow. It was Victor.

Victor was tall, his frame lean but powerful, and though his jaw was smooth and unscarred, there was an intensity in his gaze that commanded authority. His hair, strikingly red with streaks of white running through it, seemed to flicker like flames. But the white wasn’t due to age—no, it was a mark of the holy power that surged through his veins, a power that seemed at odds with the infernal surroundings.

As soon as Victor saw Perseus, his expression darkened with concern. He stepped closer, his movements fluid but heavy with purpose. "I told you not to use it again," Victor said, his voice a mixture of frustration and worry. "Do you want to die, Perseus?"

Perseus barely managed a weak chuckle, wincing at the pain it caused him. His body still oozed blood, the wounds refusing to close.

Victor’s frown deepened, but he wasted no time. Kneeling beside Perseus, he extended his hands. His werewolf claws—long, sharp, and gleaming with an eerie light—pierced into Perseus’ body, sliding between muscle and bone with precision. It was an ancient healing technique known only to those who commanded both the wild ferocity of their kind and the tempered grace of holy power.

As his claws connected with Perseus’ broken body, Victor’s eyes glowed with a soft, radiant light. A surge of warmth spread from his hands, flowing into Perseus, forcing the torn flesh to knit together, bone to realign, and blood to cease its endless flow. The air around them crackled, the holy energy burning brighter than the flames in the chamber.

Despite the pain, Perseus could feel the healing begin. His breath grew steadier, the agony subsiding bit by bit. But Victor’s face remained grim, the weight of their bond and his warnings unspoken yet palpable.

"You can’t keep doing this, Perseus," Victor muttered, his voice low, but his hands steady as they worked. "Next time, I might not be here to save you..."